Angels
by Nightengale13
Summary: My first portrayal of Angel, aka Casseey Jenkins. I catch her in an unguarded moment, when the self-secure image has unraveled. Rated for the sexual innuendo inherent in Angel's persona.


12-4-02 Angels  
  
There were too many angels, that was the problem. And on top of that, there was the issue that no one understood that angels aren't usually good. So it was understandable that when she realized she was falling, she simply took a deep breath and dived further down.  
  
\ don't you think it's rather funny \  
  
She was a fallen angel, by most counts.  
  
\ i should be in this position \  
  
Daily she bound her breasts in self-defense, but an unconventional form of both bondage and protection it was: her disgust led her to (rather than recoiling) shove her pink shrinkwrapped figure at any and every attractive male passerby. Fallen, she was, but could she have climbed back up if she'd wanted to? Even if she could've, it was too late; no one would believe she'd made it back up the silver ladder if she did indeed redeem herself. But it was a moot point-she didn't want to be a glory angel. All they got was harps. Harps were good for nothing-she wanted something useful, Memories. And glory angels were too busy sitting on clouds to search for those.  
  
Scars-scars and scars alone gave her the notion that she's been blessed by the heavens, and were the only inspiration of her name. She did not remember the face or the name of the man who'd first called her "Angel," but her skin clearly remembered the tingle of his rough fingers dancing on her scars. He was the first to see them, and that was so long ago...she sighed, thinking back on how clumsy she had been then. Ten minutes-now she was down to four. Practice made perfect, she guessed, but how could she know? Past generations could have left no evidence of such an expression. That would be a Memory--and anyone could tell you, there were none of -those-...  
  
Had she had wings there at some point? Seeing those cauterized lines, one would assume so, but no proof existed that they were not merely reminders of a time when skin had been shredded by careless blades as easily as spiderwebs were stuck down by rain. Of course, there -might- have been answers-but he who would have saved her neatly cremated whatever the amphibious megadeus had guarded behind that luminous smile. Thanks to him, her search for Memories was prolonged, and that meant more nights, more men, more conniving, more conspiring, more service to Rosewater, more subjugation to desires of others in order to obtain her goal. Thanks a bunch, Roger.  
  
\ i'm always the one who's always been \  
  
She was a bitter angel, then-only truly bitter angels could execute a perfect one-eighty on stiletto heels and stalk off, their nonexistent wings nevertheless dipping and rising with every step they took. Only truly bitter angels had venom in their gaze, and only truly bitter angels seared their own eyes with that venom. Only truly bitter angels could allow their whole beings to be thrust upon the lust of unknown men and suffer no conscious second thoughts.  
  
\ so calm, so cool, no lover's fool \  
  
She was at least grateful that scars didn't mark every wound she'd suffered. If they did, each man she'd had would have carefully avoided the lines of her heart; by the end of the night, another misled attempt to mend her soul would have added another yet another rip in the flesh between her breasts. Of course, maybe then the failed attempts at nocturnal meaningfulness might have been cut blessedly short.  
  
She was an angel of beauty. She had beauty, and for nearly thirty years had maintained it. She was wise; her savoir-vivre had been bought through the sale of things more precious. But it was got, what was gone was gone, a bit of it left in the mouth of every man she'd shared a bed with, and her beauty remained. It made a good substitute for the lost soul; no one ever looked deep enough to notice anyway.  
  
\ i don't know how to take this \ I don't see why he moves me \  
  
She had one bit of her soul left; no man could tear it from her. It was the bit that wanted so, so desperately to believe her own words on the day she'd been alone with him, in that underwater vault. It was the part which was making her question what she was.  
  
\ he's a man, he's just a man \ and I've had so many men before \  
  
Really there was nothing extraordinary about Roger himself . His fortune, yes, that was extraordinary. He was the best negotiator in the city, yes, that was an achievement. He had that perpetually chauvinistic attitude- especially towards eye-candy such as herself. "I've seen those curves before," he'd said-she shouldn't have been nettled by it. After all, how many others had seen the body and not the soul? Altogether too many.  
  
\ in very many ways \ he's just one more \  
  
In many ways he -was- just another of the men. But though he noticed her, he was able to -help- noticing her, unlike the others, who seemed unable to tear their eyes off her body. Why was that?  
  
Sultrily, she'd breathed, "You can call me Angel."  
  
But he had called her Casseey.  
  
Perhaps...perhaps, he was like her, she reasoned-disillusioned with the opposite sex. They'd both seen their share of dark nights, nights which were strangely lonely considering how tightly they were pressed to another body. But they weren't the same, either. Somehow, all those nights hadn't stolen his soul like they'd stolen hers.  
  
Or at least he didn't seem to have lost it.  
  
She was an empty angel. She had to be, after all that. Perhaps he was not empty yet because he was the man, and men took while women gave or were taken.  
  
\ i've been changed, yes really changed \ in these past few days when i've seen myself \ i seem like someone else \  
  
She didn't love him, didn't even like him. She used him for her own needs and the needs of Alex Rosewater. She wasn't turned on by his loutish demeanor; she was quite used to that by now, and not just from him. Her boss was rather loutish himself.  
  
But for some reason, she wanted him. Almost out of pure curiosity. Sex had been made a casual occurrence to her by all the attempts at making it meaningful, and now was as mundane a part of her life as washing her hands. She had slept with many men, and now kept up the practice, both to gain political benefits for Rosewater and to make her search for Memories that much easier. She cared nothing for any of the dozen men she'd had in the last two weeks. She didn't care that she didn't care, either. So her desire to be had by a man she had no affection for shouldn't have come as such a shock to her.  
  
But it did. For some reason, it did. Perhaps it was because he was able to look away from her. Perhaps it was because he and she both cared nothing for the opposite sex any longer, and she wondered what sex between two disinterested partners would be like. Perhaps she hoped their common disinterest could spark interest. Perhaps she just saw him as another prospective political tie. She, in her mind, could not even hold preference to any one cause of her desire, only knowing that it worsened every time she saw him.  
  
Perhaps it was because she wanted to be had and not to have.  
  
  
  
*** AN: Angel came visiting, jealous of all the attention I give Dorothy. She told me she knows we don't get along at all, and dared me to write her a story despite that. I have done it, and in my opinion it's a fair impression of her. Tell me what you think. This thing is still wet-cement- --that is, I will use your comments in polishing it.  
  
This fic is a songfic, technically, and the lyrics included in \ \ marks are from "I Don't Know How to Love Him," from "Jesus Christ Superstar," the rock opera. They're used without permission, for entertainment and non- profit purposes only.  
  
And while I'm at it, Big O is not my property or creation, nor are its characters or the respective voice actors. No one from Sunrise visits me at home to ask my advice on episodes 14-26 (though I wish they would). This disclaimer, applying to all my Big O fiction, both existing and yet-to- be-created, is included as a plea to Sunrise, Hajime Yotata, and Co. to not sue me, because they are rich, I am poor; I worship their work, they don't know I exist. Okay? Now, all you readers, go review!! 


End file.
